


Sticks and Stones

by erebones



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Beards, Dwarf Culture, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Kili is an adorable virgin, M/M, Shaving, longjohns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually, he could ignore it. Laugh it off. He gained fortitude from his uncle, who was always cool and indifferent, so kingly compared to his rougher companions. Kíli would watch him and lift his chin, and pretend the joshing and friendly insults made no matter to him. </p><p>But this, this was harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thetomhiddlestonpage](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thetomhiddlestonpage).



> This is kind of a companion piece/sequel to "David and Goliath," although I've developed Ori's character a bit. You don't have to read the other first, but there is one line dialogue I repeated here that will make more sense/more of an impact if you've read David and Goliath. 
> 
> For thetomhiddlestonpage over on tumblr.

Kíli breathed easier as soon as he stepped out into the late summer evening. Everything was purple and gray-green in the dying light, and the scent of sun-warmed clover still drifted over the fields. The enormous bees they’d first seen the day before were muted to a dull hum as they returned to their hives for the night.

To Kíli, it was utter bliss. He’d had enough of stuffy halls with only his own brethren – and one tipsy hobbit – for company. Not that he minded them, normally. But having come so far and so long, the youngest of their number, he was growing weary of the constant yelling and boisterous energy. And the teasing. He could abide the teasing least of all.

It had been fine at the beginning of the journey. Balin was too fond of him and Fíli both, and Dwalin was kind for all his outer crustiness. The others didn’t know him well enough, or at all, and Thorin’s gruff affection for his nephews staved off too much tomfoolery. But as the journey grow long, so did the dwarves’ level of comfort with one another. It wasn’t long before Kíli started getting teased about his beard – or lack thereof. Even Ori had a proper plaited beard, they would say, forgetting that Ori was actually older than either of the young Durin heirs. To be fair, Kíli kept his beard carefully trimmed, in order to be able to shoot properly. A terrible transgression, but his bowmanship meant more to him than trying to impress other dwarves with his crafting prowess. His brother – sworn to secrecy, of course, since he feared the repercussions should the others find out – had enough braids for both of them.

And when it wasn’t the beard, it was something else: his dainty nose (like a little elf lordling, Glóin had laughed many a time); or his small chin and full mouth (like a hobbit lass, Bilbo had giggled after a little too much pipeweed); or his slim build (as slender as a sapling according to Bofur). Kíli was used to that sort of talk from his brother and father – he’d heard it all the time, growing up – but this was different. It wasn’t the same fond, loving remark accompanied by a pat on the head or an extra serving of honey mash. This struck deep, coming from the older dwarves he longed to impress, sticking under his skin like a burr in his pony’s saddle.

Usually, he could ignore it. Laugh it off. He gained fortitude from his uncle, who was always cool and indifferent, so kingly compared to his rougher companions. Kíli would watch him and lift his chin, and pretend the joshing and friendly insults made no matter to him.

But this, this was harder. He threw himself onto one of the enormous log seats of Beorn’s front porch and folded his knees to his chest. His knife flicked in and out of its handle in his hand as he bit his lip until it bled, remembering.

_“Ach, laddie, what d’ye think you’re doing?” It was Óin, voice blaring like a foghorn through the hall in the absence of a working ear trumpet. Kíli cringed and pushed the knife back into his pack, but it was too late._

_“Was that a shavin’ knife?” Bofur demanded, scandalized, as he plucked his pipe from his mouth. “You’re supposed tae be growin’ it out, boyo, not choppin’ it off!”_

_“Lay off,” Fíli said easily from his seat at the high table, his eyes as dark and hard as flint. “D’you fancy trying to shoot a bow half so well as my brother, Master Bofur, an’ still keep that fine mustache of yours?”_

_Bofur conceded the point with a wave of his pipe, but Glóin – as old-fasioned as his brother – wasn’t satisfied. “’Tis unnatural, that’s what! You’re not an elf, boy, you should learn to wield a proper axe like my boy Gimli!”_

_Thorin finally stirred over by the fire, though Kíli couldn’t see it. He was too busy trying to fold in on himself among the detritus of his back and bedroll, wishing he could disappear into the floor. “Kíli has chosen to devote himself to the bow, Master Glóin,” he rumbled, drawing the attention of the others. “And a worthy weapon it is, owned by no race, but only the hand that wields it. I will hear no more of this.”_

_The others grumbled, but settled down. As ordered, no more was said to his face, but Kíli could feel their gazes on him as surely as if they shouted their derision aloud._

Which was why he was out here now, fumbling with his stupid knife, his eyes dry and hot as he tried to pretend he wasn’t about to cry.

Beorn’s heavy front door creaked open and Kíli froze, praying that whoever it was would just leave him alone. But he wasn’t so lucky. The door shut again, closing off the beam of yellow light, and shuffling footsteps were heard before Ori (of all people!) poked his head around the oversized log. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Kíli retorted stubbornly, and turned away, hoping the other dwarf would leave if he ignored him for long enough.

Instead, Ori boosted himself up onto the log beside him – it was large enough to fit both of them quite comfortably – and folded his mittened hands in his lap. “I’m sorry ‘bout what the others were saying. They don’t mean any harm, I don’t think.”

“’Course they don’t,” Kíli sniffed, irate. “They’re too busy trying to impose their stuffy, old-fashioned views on me.” As he spoke, he scraped his face roughly with the knife. If Ori was offended, he could leave. Preferably soon. “Ow!”

“Careful!” Ori chided, taking the knife from him. “You’ve gone and cut yourself.” He rummaged around in his pockets while Kíli sat stubbornly, wiping at the blood beading on his cheek. To his surprise, Ori produced the flat, slightly bowled stone Kíli kept in his shaving kit, along with his bone-handled bristle brush (a gift from Fíli), his leather packet of soap shavings, and a waterskin.

“Hey!” Kíli protested, but shut up as Ori went through the unpracticed motions of wetting and lathering the soap.

“Yes, I went through your things. Not a very comfortable shave, without these. Lucky the goblins didn't find them.”

“You forgot the mirror,” Kíli began, but shut up as Ori began applying the lather to his face. He watched him through wide eyes, but Ori was completely placid, laying on the soap with generous, confident strokes. _Good with his hands,_ Kíli thought, _just like any other dwarf._ For some reason this surprised him. He’d always seen Ori as the odd, bookish type, scribbling with ink and paper rather than crafting fine things out of bits of wire and shaped gems.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, tipping his head back to let Ori get beneath his jaw to his neck.

“It’s hard to get a proper shave when you’re stressed,” came the level reply. Ori set brush and lather-stone aside, plucking the blade from Kíli’s hand and wiping the blood and bristles on his scarf. “Look at me.”

Kíli obeyed, twitching slightly as Ori drew the flat of it down Kíli’s cheek.

“Be still,” Ori murmured, leaning a little closer. Kíli could smell honey and sweet cream on his breath from dinner.

“Have you ever done this before?” Kíli mumbled, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

“Mmhmm.” Ori turned the blade to follow the curve of Kíli’s jaw, smoothly removing stubble as it went. “For my mum. She’s got stiffness in her fingers and can’t properly grip a shaving knife.”

“She shaves her beard?”

“A little. We lived in a human settlement when I was younger, and sometimes it unsettled ’em, to see dwarf women with their fine beards.”

Kíli growled. “Dwarves bending to the whims of human shortsightedness?”

Ori’s hand moved the blade quick over Kíli’s jugular, a warning. “Forgive me, my prince, but my mother took in washing to keep food on the table. You may be unaccustomed to such a life, but catering to human tastes is sometimes needful.”

Kíli cast his eyes down, ashamed of himself. His own growing-up hadn’t been exactly princely, but his mother and father had never had to lower themselves to such menial tasks to keep him and Fíli fed. “I am sorry, Ori. I meant no offense.”

Ori grunted in acknowledgement, and there was quiet between them for a while. The air was cool on his now-bare cheek, and the drying lather tickled, but he didn’t move under Ori’s steady hand.

“It isn’t easy,” Kíli murmured at last. “Shaving. I don’t enjoy it. It’s… physically painful, sometimes.” He wasn’t sure who he was apologizing for, himself or Ori’s mother.

Ori nodded, pausing to wipe the blade clean before switching to the next side. “Sometimes there are things that are more important to us than our own pride.”

Kíli swallowed in agreement, staying quiet for the rest of the shave. Ori finished, wiping Kíli’s face with a dampened corner of his scarf, and looked at him a moment before handing him his knife handle-first. “Now me.”

Kíli smiled slightly. He took the knife, sliding the blade between his fingers to clean it of the last remnants of soap and stubble, and folded it back up. “Thanks, but that’s okay." He took a breath. "Fíli said the same thing, once.”

“You told him no?”

Kíli nodded. “This is my choice, and my burden to bear. Fíli is my brother, but he is not owned by me, nor I by him. I tell him that he must grow enough beard for both of us.”

Ori laughed, delighted. “He does it well.” He scrubbed his whiskery upper lip. “Better than I do.”

Kíli snorted. “You make up for it with a lovely nose.”

Mittened fingers rubbed shyly at the nose in question. “Thank you. It _is_ rather bulbous.”

“Beautiful,” Kíli agreed, a bit enviously. Ori’s mouth opened, and Kíli was sure the other dwarf was struggling to return the sentiment. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Eh?”

“I know mine is… elfin,” Kíli sneered.

“Oh bollocks!” Ori snapped, startling him. “I mean, it is, a bit, but that’s not… bad.”

Kíli snorted. “Thanks. Tell that to Uncle Thorin. _Anything_ remotely elven is automatically tainted.”

“Did you not hear him, earlier?” Ori demanded. “Defending you?”

“Aye, I heard.” Kíli’s shoulders slumped, and he ran his fingertips up and down the narrow bridge of his nose. Ori said nothing, and Kíli startled when a warm hand came down on his shoulder.

“Somehow it doesn’t surprise me, an heir of Durin being so vain.”

“Hey!” Kíli jabbed him in the side with an elbow, mouth tugging reluctantly into a smile. “Shut up. I’m allowed, I think.”

 Ori huffed, turning a bit pink around the ears. “You can’t honestly think you’re… hrm…”

“Think I’m what?”

“Unattractive.”

“I know I am,” Kíli said glumly. Inside, however, he allowed himself a spark of hope. Ori had never spoken to him this way before – never spoken to him much at all, in fact – and so far he would be the first, aside from human girls. Dwarf women simply smiled and patted him on the head, treating him like a child.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Ori muttered, chin tucked down so low he was speaking through his knitted cardigan, which was looped around his shoulders like a cowl. “You’re… lovely.” He stumbled over the words, but not, Kíli thought, because of dishonesty.

“You’d be the first dwarf to say so,” Kíli told him gently. For some reason, even though it was Ori doing the comforting, he felt as if he had to treat the other dwarf with care. He was stupidly brave, brave enough to face down wargs and trolls with only a slingshot and a borrowed war-hammer he could barely lift, but Kíli had always felt that Ori was rather fragile. A boy barely out from behind his mother’s skirts.

His musings were interrupted as Ori’s fingers twitched uncertainly on his shoulder. Before he could pull them away, Kíli reached up to grab his hand and hold it steady.

“For the longest time,” Ori began, a breath away from stammering, “I wanted to have a beard like Nori’s.”

“Really? The three prongs?”

“Yes. Dori’s was always too fastidious for me, but I wanted something bold, and showy. You wouldn’t believe all the things I tried to make it grow faster.”

“Yes I would,” Kíli murmured, huffing laughter through his nose.

“Oh, yes. I guess so.” Ori grinned, and Kíli knew they were both thinking of the same thing: that horribly awkward adolescent stage when your whiskers were still baby-fine, but the rest of you was beginning to bulk up, and you knew that if only you could start to grow a proper beard, you’d be seen by other dwarves as a proper grown-up. There were all sorts of tricks and cheats that were supposed to help – rubbing herbs on your chin, or massing oils into your skin twice a day, or eating certain foods and doing certain exercises. Kíli, as a young dwarf, had nicked his brother’s only gold piece to buy a tincture from a human peddler who claimed it would give him a glossy brown beard within the fortnight. A frightful waste, and one that got him a sound thrashing from his father and a cold shoulder from his brother for weeks.

“Anyway.” Ori’s fingers twitched again, and slid until they cradled Kíli’s between them. “You know what every young dwarf thinks. That a beard is the true mark of adulthood.”

“It is,” Kíli said. “At least, for most.” For him, it was a fanciful decoration he couldn’t afford, but no one else saw it that way.

“Not me,” Ori said firmly. “Not anymore. Like I said, there are more important things.”

“Like what,” Kíli said, just to hear his answer. He got a sharp tug on a lock of hair for his trouble, and yelped.

“Being brave. And loyal. Honorable in the face of scorn, even from your own companions.” Ori’s fingers moved between his, finding the same bit of hair to stroke between thumb and forefinger. “All of which you have in spades.”

Kíli felt warm, and not just from Ori’s nearness. He wanted to cuddle even closer and maybe cry a bit into his cowl, but that would be unseemly. Not that Ori seemed to mind about that. He drew Ori’s hand from his shoulder and up to his mouth, but he’d only just rested his lips to the rough skin of Ori’s knuckles when the door banged open. The two dwarves sprang apart, and Kíli had to grab the back of Ori’s cowl to keep him from tumbling off their perch altogether.

Thorin regarded them expressionlessly, though Kíli thought he could see a small smirk hiding behind his beard. “Night is falling. Gandalf warned us to stay inside at such times.”

They nodded hurriedly and scrambled to the floor. Kíli packed the bits of his shaving kit into his pockets, much as Ori had done, and made his way to the open door. Thorin’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“You’ve cut yourself,” his uncle observed, a thumb rising to press lightly against the shallow seam of red below Kíli’s cheekbone.

“I slipped,” Kíli explained, feeling Ori’s hesitating shadow at his back. “Ori fixed it for me.”

Thorin’s eyes were pale and shrewd as they flicked over the two young dwarves. “He did well.” He nodded decisively. “Go on, then. Fíli has asked to borrow your whetstone for his knives.”

They filed back into the hall, Kíli shouldering the curious gazes of the other dwarves with a steady heart. He replaced his shaving kit and dug out his whetstone – one of the few items that had survived the goblin tunnels – before going over to find his brother.

Fíli looked him over, head tipped up to him from where he sat crosslegged by the massive hearth. “You look well.”

Kíli knew he wasn’t just talking about the shave. He smiled, shoulders straight, and sat across from him, ignoring his brother’s brief surprise when Ori joined them, book balanced on his knees and pen scribbling quickly across the pages.

* * *

Later in the evening, as the dwarves settled down for the night, Ori laid his pallet down by Kíli’s. Suddenly sleep fled him, and he laid on his back between Ori and Fíli, pricklingly aware of the red-headed dwarf at his side. Gradually the hall filled with snores and the shallow, whispery sounds of dwarves breathing through their beards, and Kíli turned onto his side. Ori blinked sleepily back at him from beneath his fringe.

“D’you want me to move?” he whispered, fingers tightening nervously in his blanket.

Kíli shook his head silently. He knew Fíli was asleep behind him – his brother had a peculiarly limp quality in slumber that was instantly recognizable – and he had no qualms about shifting a little closer until they were nearly nose to nose.

“You didn’t really explain yourself earlier,” he said, keeping his voice as low as possible.

“What d’you mean?” Ori’s brown eyes were wide and dark under his brows, shining slightly with the light of the smoldering coals. Kíli reached out a hand and ran the pad of it over the soft hair of Ori’s beard, lightly.

“Why did you come out?”

“You were upset.” Ori shrugged, tipping his chin further into Kíli’s touch. “I thought you ought to know, we’re not all set against you. Besides, you’re not the only one among us without a beard.”

Kíli snorted. “Bilbo doesn’t count, he’s not a dwarf.” His finger scratched lightly at the more wiry textures near to Ori’s skin, no longer envious, but still wistful. “Thank you. Not just for the shave.”

Ori smiled under his touch, and Kíli found himself tracing the curving line of his cheek up to his nose. Ori’s fingers found their way around his wrist and held him gently as he kissed Kíli’s palm. “Since we were interrupted, earlier,” he stammered, blushing a bit.

Ever mindful of their companions, even as dead to the world as they were, Kíli slid his palm over Ori’s cheek to cup his face, the meat of his thumb settling in comfortably at the corner of his mouth. Strange as it was, he found that Ori’s slight flush and the steady warmth of his brown eyes calmed him; he had no qualms about leaning forward to close the gap and press his mouth softly and intimately to Ori’s. Under his hand, Ori’s cheek lifted in a smile. Kíli pressed closer, feeling Ori’s nose cradling naturally beside his own, and his neck prickled at the slight rasp of a mustache against his freshly-shaved upper lip.

Somewhere near the fireplace, there was a grunt and a rustle of cloth, and the two young dwarfs separated, lying still and quiet with their hearts beating rapidly under their breastbones. Kíli found that his hand had relocated to Ori’s neck, which was warm and moist from being swaddled in his cowl. Taking a steadying breath, Kíli braced himself on his elbow and looked out over the hall. Everything was bathed in shadow. The flickering of the glowing coals danced over the shadowy mounds of their companions, making it difficult to tell, but it seemed that not everyone was asleep.

There was a gentle tug on his wrist, and Kíli’s gaze snapped back to Ori. “Come on,” Ori whispered, as faint as an insect wing scraping stone, and Kíli let himself be led up from their pallets and out of the main hall. Looking behind, no one stirred – but, unbeknownst to them, Thorin lay facing the fire, his ears pricked to the goings-on behind him. Satisfied that any mischief was of a purely innocent kind, he closed his eyes again, drifting back into a light slumber.

In the darkened hall, Kíli crept behind his companion with the softest footsteps he could muster. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere private,” Ori murmured, pausing to turn and meet his eyes. “If that’s all right.”

Teeth glinting white in the shadows, Kíli slipped nearer to curl his arm around Ori’s waist. Like him, Ori wore only his longjohns and a pair of thick knitted socks, and Kíli could feel the heat of his skin through the soft wool under his hand. “It’s definitely all right.” He could still feel the heat and scrape of Ori’s kiss against his teeth, and he knew he wanted more of it.

Ori led him on, their hands pressing close together in the deepening dark, and they turned a corner into the enormous kitchens of their host. All the animal servants were in their stalls and pens further on, and the room was deserted. It was also nearly completely dark, save for a soft orange glow from the warm coals in the pot-bellied stove in one corner. Ori tugged him this way, to where a pile of empty sacks were kept. It wasn’t exactly silk sheets; but they were piled high and quite springy, and smelled pleasantly of apples and sweet herbs, so Kíli saw no reason to complain.

He followed Ori down, sprawling on the makeshift bedding at his side, and sought his warmth again. Ori’s arms welcomed him, and it seemed only natural to nuzzle searchingly for his mouth. Kíli made a soft, needy sound in his throat and clasped his hands around Ori’s shoulders.

“Shh.” Ori pressed two firm, lingering kisses to his mouth and drew back again, eyes bright under shadowed brows. “Have you done this before?”

Kíli hesitated, loath to admit his inexperience. But Ori’s expression was placid and nonjudgmental, and, remembering his earlier kindness, Kíli shook his head. “Elf-child, remember?” He rubbed his bare chin against Ori’s cheek.

“Not a child,” Ori whispered back. His fingers fondled the smooth curve of Kíli’s jaw and slid up to rub the generous shell-like curve of his ear. “Not an elf. You are my beautiful dwarf, my beautiful brave warrior.”

“You have a way with words,” Kíli mumbled, flushing hot with embarrassment at such liberal compliments. Ori’s fingers tightened in his hair for answer. The last shades of reluctance slipping away, Kíli followed the inexorable pressure of Ori’s touch and kissed him again.

It was warm so near the stove, but Ori’s nearness and his kisses were slinking under Kíli’s skin, setting fire to licking at his belly and drawing dampness from under his arms and down the supple curve of his back. He squirmed against Ori’s soft belly and broke the kiss with a hiss, fumbling at the collar of his longjohns. “Too warm,” he gasped, breathless.

Ori grinned, utterly disarming, and began plucking at the buttons. Kíli tipped his head back, breathing in the thick air as Ori pushed Kíli’s damp collar away from his neck and feathered kisses there instead, licking at his Adam’s apple and the moist hollow of his throat. Kíli whimpered, and Ori hummed soothingly in reply. “Never met an elf that tasted like this – like good earthy sweat and deep, wet stone.”

“Tasted many elves, then, have you?” Kíli asked, strangled.

“Durin’s beard, no,” Ori whispered back, sounding scandalized even as he rubbed the generous tip of his nose distractingly along the taut, corded line of Kíli’s neck. “I’d imagine they taste awful, though. All sweetness and starlight. Ugh.” He shuddered, and his beard tickled Kíli’s skin, still sensitive from the shave.

“You’re driving me mad,” Kíli blurted. He tugged at Ori’s buttons and found they came undone easily, being metal snaps instead of hooks and eyes. “Can’t we get these off?”

“My, you’re impatient,” Ori mumbled, his voice muffled by Kíli’s shoulder muscle. He sank his teeth in just a little, making Kíli jerk. “We’re in no rush.”

Kíli was inclined to disagree. His longjohns were becoming uncomfortably scratchy and tight, especially across the juncture of his legs, and Ori was still far too dressed. But the way the other dwarf was kissing and nipping across the swoop of his collarbones was very distracting. Giving it up as a lost cause, Kíli lay back into the empty sacks and let Ori cover him, lips working busily at the sweaty skin of his chest.

Finally, when it seemed as if Kíli was ready to climb out of his own skin, Ori tugged him upright and helped him slide his arms and torso free of the clinging material, now damp with sweat in several places. Kíli knew he was rather dirty and uncouth at the moment, shiny with exertion and brushed over with specks of dirt and lint from rolling about on the burlap, but by Ori’s reverent expression it didn’t seem to matter. Heart pounding, he reached for Ori’s collar, and slowly returned the favor, peeling away the fabric to reveal strong shoulders and a comfortable paunch of a belly that rode easily above the folds of his longjohns. Envious of such a full, stocky build, Kíli pushed him down and lowered his head.

“What are you doing?” Ori said, his voice high and whispering with lack of breath.

“My turn,” was Kíli’s only answer. He buried his face in Ori’s stomach, dragging an open mouth over the adorable dip of his navel and up the thick trail of gingery curls to his chest. The sacks were rough beneath him as he twisted, pushing himself against Ori’s hip. Inadvertently, Kíli’s leg slipped between those of his companion, and he groaned as he felt the evidence of Ori’s desire for him against the hard muscle of his thigh. Ori’s answering sigh stirred the sweaty fringe on Kíli’s forehead, and he surged up again to find his mouth.

They were so close, but not close enough. Kíli’s blood pounded in his ears as he struggled to rid himself of his encumbering clothing. Ori laughed against his mouth and steadied him with arms around his waist, coaxing him over onto his back.

“Let me.”

He slid his palms over Kíli’s shoulders and down, feeling the strength in his chest and the tight core of muscle laid over the soft vulnerability of his internal organs. Kíli twitched and shivered, hips shifting restlessly. Watching him, Ori let his hands wander lower, over rumpled fabric and loose buttons, to finally cup between his legs.

Kíli’s mouth opened in a silent cry as fire blazed up his spine. Desperate, he clutched at the rough fabric beneath him and stared as Ori’s fingers massaged skillfully, following the blood-hard shape of him under his clothes. A low whine was building in the back of his throat, and even biting into his own forearm couldn’t stifle it.

“Fuck!” he burst out suddenly, slamming back into the burlap. “Fuck, please Ori, just…!” Ori wormed his hand under the fabric, finding hot, sweaty skin, and Kíli’s voice deserted him entirely.

“Quietly,” Ori cautioned, though he was clearly affected – his voice shook, and he licked his lips repeatedly as he pushed Kíli’s longjohns down his thighs.

Kíli squirmed, lips pressing in a tight line. A tight, choked whimper escaped as Ori fought with his own clothes, parting the last few snaps and freeing himself to the open air. “Ori…”

Ori swallowed hard, his throat clicking, and he shifted to straddle Kíli’s hips. “Just like this, for now? I don’t – I don’t have anything to make it more comfortable, I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine,” Kíli bit out, fingers sinking deliciously into the powerful bow of Ori’s thighs. “We’re sweaty enough, it’ll be fine.”

A wrenching groan escaped him, and Ori leaned down on his elbows, finding Kíli’s mouth even as his hips surged forward, bringing them together at last. Kíli sobbed against his lips and scrambled to brace his feet, matching the pressure until they found a proper rhythm.

Kíli had had his own hand before, as any other young dwarf will, but it was nothing compared to the spine-scraping intimacy of having another person. Everything seemed multiplied tenfold: the pounding of his heart like a battledrum heaving through his body, the drip and slide of sweat, the wiry scrape of body hair. Best of all, he would think later, was the bruising clasp of another’s hands. Ori was deceptively strong, for all his inexperience with weapons, and his fingers tugged and dug and scratched at Kíli as they strove together for a common end.

And the end, when it came, caught Kíli off-guard. He’d managed to kick free of his socks and wrap bare legs around Ori’s waist, making the friction that much sweeter, and suddenly he felt himself on the very precipice. His arms scrambled, seeking a good grip, but they only slid against the slick planes of Ori’s back and the shifting swells of his shoulder blades. Ori lifted his head from Kíli’s neck, lips swollen and eyes bright, and that was it. Kíli spasmed hard, legs locking tight, and he muffled his scream in the softness of Ori’s beard.

Everything had been well damp and slick between them, smelling sharply of salt and musk; but this was thick and wet and slippery, instantly blooming acrid and bittersweet in the air between them. Ori slowed his strokes, pushing up against Kíli’s shoulders to watch. The image was a needle pricking deep into his groin, and Kíli’s erection twitched a final time, dripping the milky white of his seed into the damp curls on his belly.

Kíli dragged in a hoarse breath. “Fates help me,” he wheezed, trembling. “Come on then, you now.” He laced his fingers into Ori’s hair, tugged him down again. “You now.”

Ori’s face pinched together and he rocked against Kíli’s belly, grinding hard and swift with the new slickness between them. When he came, it was absolutely silent, the tight lines of his mouth and eyes more eloquent than any poetry Kíli had ever heard. The heat between them was choking now, nearly unbearable, but Kíli pulled him in anyway, catching his breath against Ori’s brow as they lay together in a tangle of burlap and wool and sweaty, dirty limbs.

“So that’s what it’s like,” he breathed at last, coaxing a grunt from Ori. “I see why Fíli makes such a fuss about it.”

“Just wait,” Ori mumbled, words slightly slurred, “for when we’ve taken back Erebor, and we can couple in a proper bed, in a proper bedroom, without eleven dwarves and a hobbit snoring in the next room.”

Kíli chuckled helplessly, chest shaking under Ori’s cheek. “I shall dream of it every night, when we’re in the middle of the cold muddy road with no privacy whatever.” He shifted, drawing Ori up to lick at the warm wetness of his mouth.

“We can’t fall asleep here,” Ori murmured when they parted for breath. “Can you imagine them finding us like this in the morning?”

“Ugh. Uncle would have fits.” Still, Kíli couldn’t help but snuggle closer. The sweat was cooling them now, and he wanted to burrow into Ori’s skin and stay there for the rest of the night. “Just a few more minutes.”

“I’m not your mum,” Ori protested half-heartedly. But he didn’t push him away.

When they finally cleaned themselves up and dragged themselves back to their bedrolls, it was as if they’d never left. Even Fíli slept on, unaware of the absence of his little brother. They hastily arranged themselves for sleep, curling a little closer than they would have before. Kíli draped his arm over Ori’s waist and closed his eyes, smiling.

“Where were you?” hissed a voice at his back. Kíli startled, eyes flying open. Fíli was awake after all. After peeking to check that Ori was slumbering peacefully, he turned to face his brother.

“None of your business, pokey-nose.”

Fíli grinned wickedly. “You’re looking rather well-fucked, baby brother.”

“Shut up.” Kíli moved to turn back over, but Fíli stopped him with a hand at his bicep.

“Hey.” He paused, eyes flicking nervously back and forth. “I’m glad for you. Really.”

Kíli inspected Fíli’s expression, but there was nothing but honesty written there. “Thank you. It was… really nice.” He blushed, but Fíli didn’t tease him.

“Welcome to adulthood,” was all he said, and dropped him a wink. “Uncle will be pleased you’re keeping it in the family.”

“Distant family,” Kíli hissed back, rolling his eyes. “Can I go to sleep now?”

Fíli snickered and rolled over, pulling his blankets high around his ears. “Fine. No funny business while you’re right next to me, okay?”

Kíli didn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead he turned back over, scooting up close to Ori’s back, and fell asleep pressed against his lover, their feet tangled and his slender nose kept warm at the nape of Ori’s neck. 


End file.
